Wraith Blasting with the Stars
by wneleh
Summary: There's a UFO buzzing Hollywood, and Rodney has a plan.  AU, XO with Dancing with the Stars.


Notes: Written for the 2011 sga_genficathon. Crossover with _Dancing with the Stars_; so, yes, this is RPF, emphasis on the F.

Wraith-Blasting with the Stars

by Helen W.

Being Head of Security for _Dancing with the Stars_ wasn't precisely John Sheppard's dream job. That had been taken from him a decade before, when he'd gambled, and lost, in Afghanistan. But his current gig did have its amusements.

Among these was their nerd star of the season, Rodney McKay, inventor of the Never-Needs-Sharpening Pencil, the Infinite Candle, and the Kool Fusion Lasts Forever Pin Light/Laser Pointer. And holder of a bunch of patents for improvements to tech that people _did_ need to replace, or were willing to pay more than a few bucks for: cars, planes, computers, you name it, there was a bit of Rodney McKay in it, or so the guy's bio read.

It was common knowledge that the surest way to be eliminated from the show was to be seen as a whiner, but McKay seemed to be immune, despite his "Well, of course I lead with my heels; that's how human beings MOVE" (week 1) and "There was nothing - NOTHING - whatsoever wrong with my posture in measure thirty. Tape! Up there in the booth, I want to see the tape, right now, right NOW, NO, MISTER Bergeron, we are NOT going to commercial!" (week 2) and "Are you BLIND?"/"Of course I looked uncomfortable, this shirt itches. You dancers must be masochists" (week 3). But America was eating it up.

There was no denying that part of the appeal of McKay was how well he seemed to connect with his partner, official show bad girl Lacey Schwimmer; maybe America thought they balanced each other out.

For reasons John couldn't fathom, McKay had bonded early on with World Ultimate Fighting Champion Ronon "the Barbarian" Dex, and they'd taken to hanging out in McKay's dressing room between obligations on performance days, McKay complaining about whatever crossed his mind and Dex nodding and issuing non-committal grunts when pressed, while Lacey held sudoku races with Ronon's partner Cheryl Burke.

Tonight McKay's room was even more crowded than usual. Marina Sirtis and Maks Chmerkovskiy were there too, which was a bit surprising since Maks never got on well with the show's male star athletes - even the real pussycats (and most of them were). John presumed Marina and Maks were visiting for the benefit of Rodney's friend just in from Scotland, Carson Beckett. Kind of funny, given that Beckett must have been in his mid-20s at least when _The Next Generation_ had been on.

It had been one of the amusements of the season, watching Maks watch Ronon; it was a lot like how Ronon watched, well, everyone, man or woman, young or old. What had done that to Ronon? Not ring fighting - fighters had to be alert for bullies trying to prove something, but if you stayed out of bars (or took along a bodyguard or two) this wasn't much of a problem. And nothing about Ronon read as ex-military - ex-US-military, at least - and the guy's accent was as American as his own.

Ronon and Cheryl were going to do the paso doble tonight; athletes, especially the fighters, usually excelled at the paso, and John thought it might be their break-out dance. He was going to have to make sure he had a decent line-of-sight for it.

Marina seemed to take John's arrival as her cue to leave; she rose and shook Carson's hand sincerely and then, with a wink to John, slid out the door. Maks muttered something about Hair and Makeup and followed.

Carson sank into the chair she'd just vacated, looking dazzled. "I canna believe how friendly she is," he said. "Rodney, you are a lucky, lucky man."

"But... isn't she... kind of old?" It was unusual for Ronon to speak without being spoken to directly, and John wondered if Ronon realized that that wasn't why they were all now staring at him.

"She's..." Rodney sputtered, "She's Deanna Troi! Troi! Counselor Troi! Okay, she doesn't look like a twenty-five-year-old anymore, but who does?"

"Me, I do," said Lacey without looking up from her sudoku.

"And... okay, Lacey, you're attractive enough, but you're no Counselor Troi," said Rodney. "Am I right, Sheppard?"

"Dead's more like," he said, with a grin toward Lacey, who'd put down the sudoku book and was now holding her pencil like she'd like to stab her partner with it. "Then I'll get stuck with the paperwork."

"What's a Counselor Troi?" Ronon asked.

"How old are you?" Rodney asked, ignoring Lacey, who'd decided that her sudoku book would be a more appropriate weapon and was now poised to strike.

"Don't know."

"Huh? Well, I'd say you were, what, born in 1980? Okay, you'd have been a child when TNG was on, but EVERYONE knows about it. Am I right, Lacey?"

"I'm not talking to you," said his partner, whacking him hard across the knee.

"I'm no Trekkie, but I know who Troi was," said Cheryl. "Everybody knows _Star Trek_."

"Oh, yeah, _Star Trek_," said Ronon. "That movie. Some guys at the gym took me. Was she one of the aliens?"

"Owww," said Rodney, rubbing where Lacey'd whacked him; then, "Yes, alien, but NO SHE WASN'T A RENEGADE ROMULAN! Seriously, Dex, sometimes I think you aren't from this planet."

"Yeah, sometimes I think the same thing," said Dex, showing one of his rare half-smiles but looking away from John. Now what was THAT about?

"I think that about you, McKay," said John. "Or that you were raised by wolves."

"Who says I wasn't?" said McKay. "What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn't you be busy securitying or whatever it is you do here?"

"Things are under control, McKay," he said. "I just stopped by to ask if you'd heard about the explosion at JPL this morning."

The explosion had been leading on CNN all day because it was actually the third time a part of the facility had decided to tear itself apart, the second in the past week. And today, there were reports that two small, superfast, super-odd-looking planes had streamed away from the facility - planes nobody had seen fly in - and then vanished. The term "UFOs" had been used by more than one eyewitness, and in this case the eyewitnesses were PhD physicists.

McKay had told John that he was doing _Dancing with the Stars_ primarily to get enough name recognition that the U.S. government would be compelled to give him a security clearance and access to its labs. (John was pretty sure that that wasn't how it worked.) John knew that McKay had to be going crazy, not being able to work the JPL UFO problem, but Rodney waved a hand dismissively. "Why would aliens fly OUT of JPL?"

"Before they were shut up, the witnesses were pretty convincing."

"Government scientists!" said Rodney. "You listen to them?"

"Haven't met any in a while," said John. "But I think I see why they won't let you come in and play."

"Well, eventually they'll have to," said Rodney.

"Did anyone really see an alien?" asked Ronon, looking, well, worried, frankly.

"No, just a couple of odd planes... nobody got a photo, but there's a sketch on-line from someone who saw it zip over Pasadena before it vanished," said John, pulling out his iPhone and opening Safari. He quickly found the sketch - a small craft with an elongated nose and short, sharp wings, all of which canted downward.

"This happened today?"

"Yes."

"There were how many?"

"Just two, they say."

Ronon was now standing, looking like he wanted to bolt, but didn't know to where.

"What are you going on about, Dex?" asked Rodney. "I'm sure they didn't head straight to Hollywood."

"Come on, Ronon, let's get you through costuming," said Cheryl, also rising. "One thing at a time, okay?"

The rest of the afternoon passed without incident, save for a text from the LAPD reporting the discovery of a 'desiccated husk' of an elderly woman several blocks away a half-hour before show time. Pretty odd, not to mention downright horrible, but probably not something John had to worry about.

The show, as usual, began at 5 p.m. sharp. Marina and Maks were up first; their foxtrot was solid enough, earning 8s from Len and Carrie Ann but only a 7 from Bruno, who thought their rhythm was wanting (John agreed). Not great for week 4, but Andre Agassi and Anna Trebunskaya followed them with 6s for their Viennese waltz, so Marina and Maks were probably safe.

Rodney and Lacey danced third, performing a rumba that wasn't all that bad, all things considered. The Rodneyism of the night happened in response to Bruno's "Well, nobody expected this to be your dance."

"It's NOT EVEN a dance," Rodney snapped. "How can you possibly use the same set of metrics for this as for what that tennis player did? How do you compare something that's supposed to look like a failing hard drive to something best suited for the princess fantasies of little girls?"

Bruno: "I'm curious, Rodney. Why are you even here?"

Rodney: "So America will love me."

They got 7s.

On fourth were Ronon and Cheryl. As always, they looked great together as they took their places. Though she wasn't the tallest of the woman pro dancers, Cheryl parsed as wholesome and athletic; and nobody could pull off glittery dreadlocks and a black and purple lace cape like Ronon Dex.

The music started - something pop, John didn't know who the original singer was. The couple promenaded... then broke hold, then their rhythm crumbled...

And then Ronon was pulling out, seemingly from nowhere, the oddest looking gun John had ever seen, and firing it nearly straight up into the rigging.

John's pistol was still only half out of his holster when a body hit the dance floor with a sickening thud. Most certainly male, maybe 5' 10", medium build, long blond hair. From where he was standing, John couldn't see his face, so couldn't tell whether it was one of the crew; several had hair that length.

Ronon still had his weapon (gun? blaster?) raised and was turning in a slow, tight circle, scanning the entire theater.

The band was crashing to a halt; Cheryl had stepped away from Ronon and looked like she was about to go for cover behind the judges' table, bright woman that she was. So far, the crowd was seated - they hadn't realized things had gone off script yet. The cast also seemed frozen in place, the judges and hosts still seated.

Where were John's own people? One, two, three appeared. But they were trained for crowd control and searching bags politely; John was the only person in the building who should have had a gun.

Keeping his weapon down, he approached the dance floor. "Dex? Want to tell me what's going on?"

Ronon ignored him.

Then Maks Chmerkovskiy charged down the steps from the celebriquarium, Rodney McKay and Lacey on his heels. Were they working together? No, Rodney was yelling, "Stop, you idiot, don't spook him!" and grabbing at Maks's arm.

Ronon, looking more annoyed than anything, swung his weapon toward them in a way that said, 'really, there are other things I'd rather shoot, so just stay back and let me do this,' then returned his attention to the rigging, the crowd, the shadows.

Maks changed course and trotted over to John. "There is a plan, Sheppard?"

John shook his head noncommittally. Evacuating the theater - doing ANYTHING - might set Dex off.

Rodney was now kneeling by the man Ronon had hit. "Carson?" he called, then, to John, "Sheppard, Carson's a doctor."

John nodded his understanding; oh, there Carson Beckett was, scooting down his row toward the aisle.

Okay, this was calming down...

And then there was a whir from above, an instant before Ronon dove and fired upward. A moment later, another body fell. Same build, same stringy hair. This time, it landed so that John could see its face; it was wearing a mask that looked more like a Brillo pad than anything else. No explicit eyes, nose, or mouth. Some cult? Which hated dancing? No, they were clearly after Dex; this was all about him.

Lacey rushed over to the new body and started to check for vital signs.

"Dex, are there more up there?" John called. "The police are on their way; there'll be back-up soon."

"No time," said Dex.

The audience's near-hush was starting to be interrupted by the scrape of chairs as people rose and began to head toward the doors. Staff, including his people, were facilitating; Tom Bergeron was helping an elderly woman handle the stairs, and there was Cheryl, directing people away from the side hallway and toward the more direct exit to stage right. Nobody was screaming, nobody was trampling anybody; good, because crowd control was not where his attention needed to be.

Carson Beckett was now kneeling beside the first body. "Rodney... Mr. Sheppard..." he called, "Come, I don't want to shout about this just now please."

John quickly made a wide circle around Dex and joined them; this body was also masked. "What have we got?" If the man was alive, and they'd taken too long to get to him...

"This - he's not a human," Carson whispered. "Look at his face."

John peered beneath the mask; the face, if you could call it that, beneath, was gray and essentially featureless, save for slits where its nose should have been, and large, pale eyes.

"Plastic surgery?" John suggested, "Or some sort of birth defect?"

Carson held up a hand; it bore liquid that looked, if John had had to describe it, like steak sauce. "This isn't human blood."

"Uh, yeah, doc," said John, "You might want to wash that..."

He looked up toward Ronon; he couldn't catch his eye, so he called, "Dex, is there something you'd like to tell me?"

Another high-pitched whir sounded from the shadows above the stage. A moment later, a third - alien? - fell, hitting the judge's table; a weapon that looked a bit like Ronon's (not that John was an expert) fell with it, skittering across the floor, and Lacey darted and scooped it up.

Fortunately, Len, Bruno, and Carrie Ann seemed to have joined the evacuation. The room was still 2/3 full, though, and there were a smattering of screams, a sense of good order starting to give way to fear and desperation. They had to make this stop, or someone (else) was going to get hurt.

And then a woman's voice called out from above them, "Ronon Dex, I hereby take you into my custody, by order of the Coalition."

Dex swung his weapon towards her, but not quite, John sensed, _at_ her. "Your timing's not great," he answered.

"My timing is why you are still alive, Ronon Dex," the woman responded. "There are no more living Wraith in this building. It is time for us to leave."

"Not sure about that," said Dex. "Any of it."

A woman descended to the dance floor on a single, thin rope, Batman-like. Dressed in worn suede, and bearing an improbable number of knives. Cave ninja, John thought.

"My name is Teyla Emmagan," she said, including them all in her greeting. "Ronon Dex, how difficult are you going to make this? Time is of the essence."

"Are more of those things coming?" Lacey asked.

"Yes, many more. He draws them," said the newcomer.

"Then let's get out of here," John decided. "Follow me."

John hadn't meant _everyone_, necessarily, but somehow he ended up with not just Ronon Dex and Teyla Emmagan, but also Rodney, Maks, Lacey (just for the hell of it?), and Carson Beckett following him down the hall that led past the dressing rooms and loading dock and out to employee parking. Given that four of his tails were wearing gold lame' and sequins, they probably looked quite the parade.

Behind him, Teyla Emmagan and Ronon Dex were having one of the stranger conversations John had ever heard, in English more understandable than Carson's.

"You can't compel me to go with you," Ronon said.

"You cannot stay on this planet. Billions live here! You endanger them all."

"Then I'll run again. Pick an address that's not part of your Coalition, whatever that is, see where I end up. Did it for years before coming here, can do it again."

"The Coalition Council has ordained that Running must stop. That is why I came. We now have a strategy, a way of keeping you safe."

"You can remove the device?"

"No, not yet."

"Prison, then."

"It is... not uncomfortable. But I will not lie - you may never see the sky again."

"I'll take a pass."

"There are worlds from which there is no return. If you choose an address at random..."

"Maybe nobody ever returns because nobody wants to."

It was a good thing he'd driven the Aerostar. (McKay: "Minivan?" John: "Long story," though really it wasn't.)

Somehow, he ended up with McKay riding shotgun. "Head to my place, up towards Runyan Canyon Park; it's defendable," he said.

"You're renting near the Hills?" John asked. McKay's idea wasn't bad - the park was only a mile or two away, if that; and there were dozens of ways of getting there. And the Hollywood Hills were a lot less densely populated than where they were now, smack in the middle of the Fairfax District.

"I _bought_ in the Hills. I drill holes; it upsets owners."

The guy must really hate losing security deposits.

After turning north, John checked his rear view mirror. Ronon was seated in a back corner, looking very unhappy (and a bit squished); Maks occupied the other corner, looking differently unhappy (but just as squished). Between them, Lacey, still clutching the weapon she'd recovered earlier, looked like she was trying to exude serenity; it was a different look for her. In front of them, Teyla Emmagan looked as cool as a cucumber; or maybe that was motion sickness? And Carson Beckett looked like a fish out of water.

On second though, John wished he'd driven the Miata today.

"So," he called, "Anyone want to tell me what's going on? What were those _things_, and why were they trying to kill Ronon?"

"They're Wraith," said Ronon. "They suck your life out."

"Lovely," said John.

That text from the LAPD. Life sucked out. Oh. Shit.

"Where are they from?" he asked.

"Their exact origin is unknown," said Emmagan. "They, and we, have traveled a very long way."

"Searching for Earth?" It was like a bad AU of _Battlestar Galactica_ - the original that had been on during Junior High, of course, he just couldn't buy Starbuck as a woman.

"They've been searching for Ronon Dex," said Emmagan. "Your planet - is a bonus. One that now presents complications."

"What's so special about Dex?" Rodney asked. "Hey, Ronon, no offense."

John couldn't tell whether or not Dex responded, but Emmagan said, "It is a game, a sport. Humans of exceptional vigor are implanted with a tracking device and then set loose. They are known as Runners. There are certain rules Wraith follow... the details are not really important. What *is* important is that I am virtually certain that, until their arrival on this planet, they did not know of its existence. Now that they do - no Wraith who has been here may survive long enough to message home."

Oh.

"What's your role in this? Can you bring in - uh - help?" John asked.

"Wraith destroyed and scattered my people," said Emmagan. "I now keep them from doing the same to other worlds. But - no, there will be no other help."

"Listen, Ms. Emmagen," said John, "If we're under attack... I was in the U.S. Air Force, there are things we are very, very good at, but..."

"Please, call me Teyla. I have only been on your world a few days, but I sense that you are very strong, very organized. Do not assume this is universal."

Even interpreting traffic laws liberally, it took them five minutes to get across Santa Monica, then another five to cross West Sunset. As they started to climb the winding road McKay said led to his place, Teyla said, "This is taking too long. More Wraith approach."

"How can you tell?" Dex asked. Shouldn't Dex be the expert?

"It is a family gift," said Teyla; then, "John Sheppard, we must seek cover and assume a defensive posture immediately. We are fortunate that this is sport for them; otherwise, we would be dead."

"Here, turn here," said McKay, and John swung the minivan into a driveway and then on into the opening two-car garage.

The house was built into the hillside, with most of the garage underground. "Will they be tracking anything you've touched?" McKay asked Ronon; he didn't answer, but Teyla said, "No, they are only able to track Dex himself."

"Not his biological signature?" asked Beckett.

"You wonder if they are sensing him directly at all?" said Teyla. "No, they are only sensing the tracker in his back."

They were now out of the minivan and into a windowless room off the back of the garage, presumably entirely underground. Rodney flicked on the lights and closed the door.

The room smelled vaguely of paint, and there wasn't much furniture, just a bare work table, a lab stool, a few metal cabinets.

Rodney liked to drill holes. Oh.

"Hey, cute, a panic room!" said Lacey. "No air vents, though. Should we all be in here?"

"It's not precisely a panic room," said Rodney. "It's a work room; I thought I'd have more time for tinkering. And there's plenty of air, since it's always just me in here... it's not airtight, anyway, there's a gap beneath the door. But it's Faraday-shielded; mostly surrounded by dirt; and front wall is thick, since I built it to contain an explosion."

"What are you planning on exploding?" asked John.

"I'm an inventor, sometimes things explode."

"Wouldn't something that took out this room take you out too?"

"Yes, yes, that's what keeps life interesting," said Rodney, and again John was not at all surprised he'd never gotten himself into a U.S. government lab.

Not wanting to take the only chair, John found a spot of wall to lean against and asked, "So, let's recap. What have we got?"

"Killer aliens," said Maks.

"How many aliens?" John looked at Teyla, who shrugged.

"Between ten and thirty may be on the planet," she said, "with an unknown number of craft. The craft are capable of being invisible to our eyes, but must uncloak to disgorge Wraith, fire weapons, or cull."

"Cull?" asked Lacey.

"Harvest people," said Teyla.

Rodney started snapping his fingers. "The explosions at JPL a few days ago, and this morning! The UFOs! Ronon, you've known all along! Why didn't you say anything?"

"I thought it was obvious."

Rodney turned to Teyla. "Can _you_ explain?"

She nodded. "Perhaps. Jaypeeyel is what you call your planet's Ring of the Ancestors?"

"Wait, ring? What ring?" Rodney asked.

Teyla shot a look at Ronon. "I do not understand."

"They don't know what they have," said Ronon. "When I came through, the ring was in a storage room. The whoosh took out a wall. I had to scale a couple of fences to get out of there."

"That explains the rather odd locale I found myself in when I came through; though I wouldn't have described it as a storage room," said Teyla. "Given the nature of my visit, and the presence of natives, I left the vicinity very quickly, and did no local reconnaissance."

"Maybe they moved it," said Ronon. "Plus, I came through dead of night - nobody was around, at least at first."

"So there's a gateway to other worlds at JPL," said John. "Sweet." Next to him, Rodney nodded his shaky agreement.

"How did you find me, anyway?" Ronon asked. "I'd run out of addresses I knew, so just picked a bunch of symbols randomly."

Teyla reached into a pocket and pulled out a small device. "The signal Runners emit is fairly easy to detect. When your signal was lost four years ago, we assumed you had been captured. When it reappeared last month, we realized that you had simply traveled very, very far, out of our galaxy's network."

"I - kind of thought that might have happened," said Ronon. "The night sky here is too different."

"Do you know the name of the planet you came here from?" asked Teyla.

"No."

Teyla looked unconvinced, but continued, "Very few rings are capable of accessing energy sources sufficient for such long linkages, but several are. The Wraith may know of ones we do not. A more major problem has been to find a viable address; few return from blind jumps.

"Fortunately or unfortunately, advances by a Coalition member now allow the remote determination of approximate ring addresses. The algorithm was recently obtained by a Wraith clan - the one that hunts you. Therefore, we determined that your hunt was likely to continue, and that it must be stopped.

"We made multiple tries before we were able to lock onto a ring in this galaxy. From that planet, I was able to more precisely determine your location, and this planet's address.

"Apparently, the Wraith have been able to do likewise."

John shook his head, still trying to wrap his mind around what he was hearing, and its implications. "Can't we just block the ring somehow, or shoot the bad guys as they come through?"

"Yes, rings can be defended," said Teyla, "Though you might be surprised by how difficult that often turns out to be. But the true threat to your planet is not from Wraith darts, but from much larger ships, which can hold thousands. It would take many years of travel, but I am certain your planet would be deemed worth doing almost anything to cull."

"So we've got to - what, kill them before they know what's hit them?" John asked. "Won't more come looking for them?"

"Unlikely," said Teyla. "Wraith clans work together when necessary, but the disappearance of a lordling during a hunt will not be mourned, will not be questioned, even by his queen. Accidents happen."

Okay then. "How do we find them?" he asked.

"They will find us," said Teyla. "Or, rather, Ronon."

"You can't use this man as human bait!" said Rodney. "He's - he's a competitor on _Dancing with the Stars_, for crying out loud!"

"If we remove the device from his body, then we dunna have to use him, correct?" Carson asked.

"Can't be done," said Ronon. "I've hacked at it myself. It's too deep."

"Well, that's not a surprise," said Carson. "What have doctors said?"

"Doctors couldn't get it either. Two've tried - opened me up but then backed out."

"The tracking device fuses with the Runner's spinal column," said Teyla. "Attempts to remove them have paralyzed several individuals. They were then killed, so that they could not be captured and forced to reveal the identities of those that had helped them."

"That's inhuman!" said Carson.

"I agree. Thus I have thrown my support behind the deep-hold solution."

"What sort of tools have these _doctors_ used?" asked Carson. "I'm gathering that, though you lot are space travelers, your medical facilities may not be exactly on par with Ninewells."

"Facilities?" asked Teyla. "Doctors have tool kits... and specialties..."

Carson moved so that he was standing directly in front of Ronon. "Lad," he said, "I'm not a neurosurgeon. But I know how to cut open a body and sew it back together again. If you can keep yourself still, I might be able to help you."

"Using what?" asked Rodney. "How will you even know where to cut?"

"Like you're the only clever one here! Let me take a look at your kitchen and your toolbox."

In the end, Rodney's friend used (among other things) magnets and a multimeter; several X-Acto knives; and the gas stove and rubbing alcohol, for sterilizing surfaces that needed it (including Ronon's mess of a back; no wonder he hadn't gone shirtless for the rumba the week before).

Beckett wanted Ronon to stretch out on the floor of the workroom, but Ronon balked, and John couldn't blame him. Up to this point, Ronon had either been shooting things or gamely along for the ride, trusting in Rodney's and John's knowledge of local geography and Teyla's understanding of the likely proximity and behavior of the beings they called Wraith.

To allow oneself to be cut was to permit vulnerability on an entirely different scale.

Maks and Teyla, perhaps sensing their presence was not helpful, went outside to get a better lay of the land, and Rodney grabbed some tools and pulled Lacey and the Wraith weapon away, presumably into the main part of the house.

Their departure visibly relaxed Ronon, but he still insisted on being upright, in the end sitting on the stool backwards, his arms wrapped around the backrest.

John crouched in front of him, as close as seemed comfortable. "This ring at JPL - what does it look like?" he asked.

Ronon looked at him like he was crazy. "It looks like a ring." He thought a moment. "They're about - ten feet across, maybe? Maybe more?"

Ronon paused and winced; and all Carson had done was swab rubbing alcohol on his back.

John looked up at Carson. "Doc, you think we could find some whiskey, give him a few shots?"

Carson shook his head. "All Rodney has are a couple of American beers. My sense is we don't have time to wait for them to take effect. And we don't need Ronon here to have to pee halfway through." Carson patted Ronon's shoulder. "He can do this, he'll be fine."

Right.

John refocused on Ronon. "What's the ring made out of? Is it - like - a wire?"

"It's like stone, but a whole lot stronger," said Ronon. "Nothing ordinary will touch them. The only way to get rid of one is to bury it. I figured that's what Earth did - buried its ring, then dug it up again and didn't know what to do with it. Or maybe they didn't find all the parts, or know to keep them together."

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"To know what world to hook up to, you need to tell the ring... Teyla and I were talking about this earlier. There are a bunch of ways of dialing, but I don't know the tech behind any of them. When the ancestors made the rings, though, they gave each its own dialing pedestal, and that's what most people use. I didn't see one at Jaypeeyel."

Carson, humming slightly, made the first cut; Ronon did an excellent job of seeming oblivious.

"So you came through this ring - four years ago, you said?" John asked.

"Yeah, about that."

"A totally new world... must have been scary."

"The air was breathable. Worked for me."

"So how'd you become a fighter?"

"I got into a fight." He gave a little grin, which turned into a wince as Carson continued to work. "One thing led to another."

"They paid in cash?" John guessed.

"Cash, beer, pretzels, a place to sleep. No fighting-to-the-death, like some places want. Sheppard, it was paradise."

"Sounds like," said John. "So how'd you land on _Dancing with the Stars_?"

"Dunno, really. Someone asked the guy who arranges my fights if I wanted to, he thought I'd enjoy it, he was right. I never wanted to just fight all my life."

"What did you want? What _do_ you want?"

"It's stupid," said Ronon. "I just want to be normal. I... I don't want to talk about it. I appreciate what you're doing... but I don't want to talk about that."

"Yeah, okay," said John. "So, how'd you get a Social Security number?"

Ronon smiled a little. "Never have figured out what the deal with that is. That sort of thing is why I have a guy who tells me what to do and where to go."

"Who's probably taking advantage of you."

"'Course he is. But I have food, a place to sleep. And this spring I've learned to dance."

And then Carson must have been doing something especially tricky because Ronon closed his eyes as his whole body tensed and he bit down on a scream.

"Stay still, stay still, stay still," Carson chanted under his breath, then, louder, "There's a good lad. Another minute... this really isn't that complicated, you just have to know a bit of anatomy."

"Come on, buddy, breathe," said John. "Exhale, inhale, out, in."

He seemed to be doing some good; Ronon was trying to match the pace he was setting.

And then it was over, and Carson was holding up something that looked like one of those frobs one buys when bored at Radio Shack. "Any idea what I should do with this thing?" he asked.

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that," said John; then, "Is he okay?"

"Just a little shocky from the pain - and the whole situation, I imagine. He dinna lose very much blood."

Ronon's body had, in the previous few moments, gone from clenched to almost toneless. John rose and pocketed the device (hygiene? What's that?), then helped Carson walk/drag Ronon to where someone had laid out blankets and a pillow on the floor. It would do, since they didn't have the muscle present to get Ronon into the main part of the house. They got him down onto his stomach, then Carson began packing the wound.

The room's door opened, and Lacey poked her head in. "It's over?" she asked. "The thingy's in one piece? Great, there's a UFO buzzing Hollywood, and Rodney has a plan."

John followed Lacey through the garage and up a half-flight of steps into the kitchen/dining area, which was strewn with wires, gadgets, and tools. Everything Rodney could come up with that might be useful, presumably.

"So, y'all've been strategizing?" he asked.

"You could say that," said Rodney. "Do you know how to operate a model helicopter?"

"I know how to fly the real thing."

"Excellent, great, I'm sure the skills needed are identical," said Rodney. He sighed. "Fortunately, they've gotten pretty simple in the past several years."

"You know, I also have an M9 in my holster," said John. "Maybe Maks or Lacey can handle your toy."

"Maks and Lacey have something else to do," said Rodney.

"And you?"

"I'm still working on it."

Teyla gave him what he figured must be meant to be a reassuring smile. "It is a good plan," she said. "Please remember - this is a game to the Wraith. They will follow certain rules, as long as it suits them. It is to our advantage to keep them to those rules for as long as we can.

"The central ones are, they meet force with roughly equivalent force, and they save the Runner himself for the lordling, who will fight him hand-to-hand."

"They were shooting at him at the theater," John pointed out.

"Their weapons only stun their targets," said Teyla. "It is standard Wraith practice to take their victims alive, as undamaged as possible."

"Better eating." That was Ronon, now standing in the kitchen doorway, looking like hell; Carson was right behind him.

"Shouldn't you be lying down?" John asked.

Ronon shrugged and managed to make it to the closest chair before sitting heavily. "Save the lordling for me," he said.

Incredibly, Teyla answered, "Yes, Ronon Dex, we will."

Four minutes later, a half-dozen Wraith, masks and all, came streaming up the street. Lacey, Maks, and Teyla charged the first one: Maks spun him around, Lacey delivered a kick to the face, and Teyla slit his throat. For the second, Lacey spun, Maks slugged, and Teyla hit him with a leg from one of McKay's chairs. And then she slit his throat.

And so it went. In just a matter of moments, there were six dead aliens in the driveway.

Through the open living room window above the driveway, John called, "Good work! Is that all it's going to take?"

Teyla looked up and shook her head. "These were assigned to fight as they were fought; they are not original thinkers, and could not readjust a plan when that failed."

She and the professional dancers stripped the bodies of their weapons - which were identical to the one that Lacey'd grabbed at the theater - and came inside. Maks and Lacey then sat heavily on the sofa, covered in gore, and Lacey buried her head in Maks's shoulder and started to cry. Maks, not looking much more stable, turned and put both arms around her, holding her tightly.

Okay, dancers out.

"Okay, done," said McKay, holding up what he'd been working on: Lacey's weapon, but now dangling dozens of - were those McKay Brand Kool Fusion Lasts Forever Pin Light/Laser Pointers?

"Oh my," said Carson. "You think that will work? You've always said the output of those things was tiny, and couldn't be combined."

"Yeah, I've always lied," said Rodney.

Teyla looked doubtful. "Wraith weapons stun flesh. Their weapons are powerless against shielded machinery."

"Yes, not any more, else I wouldn't be standing here holding this thing," said Rodney. "Now, Sheppard, let's get you up to speed on the chopper."

John's instructions were simple - fly the helicopter, now bearing Ronon's tracking device, as high as it could go. So he did; an infinite moment later, it shattered. Beside him, Rodney fired; there was a huge bang, and a wrecked plane in the street, shattered by its impact with the ground.

No, not plane, of course; alien 'dart'.

"Heh, I could do that all day," said Rodney.

"Let us hope you do not have to," said Teyla. "There should only be one left."

A moment later, finally, John heard a siren. Great. He grabbed his cell phone and started dialing.

It was easy to convince the local LAPD captain, who John had cultivated a solid working relationship with, not to charge into the situation, guns blazing; the FBI took a little more work, but John's third and fourth calls, to several old Air Force contacts, would, he hoped, limit outside involvement to roadblocks at the base of Rodney's cul-de-sac for now.

Not that major firepower wouldn't have been welcomed; but if Teyla was right, the worst outcome of the day would be for the Wraith to scatter and call home.

Soon enough, a loud whir filled the air, and a small craft, twin to the one that lay in ruins, shimmered into sight and approached at maybe 40 m.p.h. As it passed the driveway, it extended a beam that wasn't completely non-_Star Trek_-transporter-like and deposited a butt-ugly man-like creature onto the blacktop. Shiny blue-gray-white face with whacky bone structure and a kinda-mustache; bald crown, scraggly white hair behind; leather SKIRT?

And here John had been _sure_ the 80s were over.

The Wraith looked at the wreckage of the dart Rodney had downed, and roared.

Next to him, Rodney was firing his augmented gun-like thing; his second shot hit the retreating dart (where had McKay learned to shoot, anyway?). It dropped, but didn't have far to fall, and seemed to stay intact.

The downed dart emitted a beam again, and around a dozen of the masked version of Wraith materialized. Half charged toward their leader, the other half scattered. Not good.

"John Sheppard," said Teyla, "You are a soldier?"

"I was Air Force - now I'm..." But Teyla wasn't asking for his CV. "Yes, sure, I am. Close enough."

"Good," she said. "We must kill them all."

John nodded, checked his M9, and followed her, Ronon to his right, out the back door and toward the scrub where some of the Wraith had headed.

John had been in a handful of ground combat situations during his years in uniform; they'd been the result of major fuckups, and had been horrible.

Fighting alongside Teyla and Ronon was a lot more like, well, laser tag. Laser tag with knives, given Teyla's preferred method of killing. The Wraith were decently fast, but they were faster, smarter, and better shots.

It was odd, having no sense that the beings he was fighting were _people_ with mothers and girlfriends and hound-fucking-dogs who loved and would miss them. And maybe later he'd get a good guilt on about the killing, or about not feeling guilty about the killing, but right now he was protecting his fucking PLANET, baby, yeah, there went another one!

Was that nine? Ten? Eleven? How many were out there? Was that all of them?

And then he was crouched with Teyla in the bushes on the far side of the house, reloading his M9, training it on the lordling again (still?) standing in the driveway. And... oh, there was Ronon, coming around the garage.

Tossing his blaster aside? And drawing a knife. And charging, waving said knife.

One-handed, the Wraith intercepted and punched Ronon away; he flew what looked like a dozen yards and landed in shrubbery.

John raised his pistol. The shot would be so easy...

"Don't," whispered Teyla.

"Why? Think Ronon'd shoot me?"

"I think he would not forgive you."

Again Ronon charged; again he was thrown. And again. This was ridiculous! But what, John wondered, did he really know, understand, about Ronon?

And then, while the lordling dispassionately watched Ronon struggling to rise from the bushes, Carson Beckett charged out of the house, picked up Ronon's discarded blaster, and fired. The Wraith crumpled. Carson fired again, and again, until the Wraith was a smoking heap.

McKay trotted out of the house and took the blaster from Beckett, then gave him a quick look up-and-down. "You okay?"

Beckett nodded, and together they approached Ronon, who was now standing and staring at the lordling's remains. "Which of you shot him?" he asked.

"Aye, that'd be me," said Beckett, and John started forward, ready to step in...

Ronon smiled. "Thanks, Doc," he said, and enfolded the Beckett in a bear hug.

And then, for the second time that hour, Ronon Dex crumpled in Carson Beckett's arms.

Leaving Ronon to Carson and the dancers, who'd emerged from the house as soon as the shooting had stopped, John suggested to Rodney that he put Ronon's weapon some place safe and non-obvious, then took a walk.

Around the closest turn, two cruisers blocked the street; but soon they'd be superfluous, as other emergency vehicles were converging. No civilian, no matter how motivated, would be able to pass...

Scratch that, Cheryl Burke, wearing an odd mishmash of dance and workout clothes, was weaving through the growing throng. "You ran off with my partner! What the hell, John?"

"Yeah, sorry," said John. "Go on up, Rodney's place is the first on your right."

It took ten minutes to negotiate full access to the downed Wraith ships (because why the hell not?) that didn't include immediate access to Rodney's house (because why?); by the time he got back, Rodney had straightened up a bit and broken out snacks. Ronon was in the recliner, eyes closed, expression carefully neutral, ice pack on his head, having his left arm stitched up by Beckett (John didn't want to know with what), while Lacey and Maks demonstrated for Cheryl the moves they'd used on the Wraith.

John looked out the living room window at the swarm of people now descending on the craft and the Wraith bodies; Rodney and Teyla soon joined him.

"This is all incredible," said Rodney, in the understatement of the day. "What are you going to do about it?"

"_Me_?" asked John. "McKay, this is all way above my pay grade. I just want to give Ronon a little breathing room, seeing as Beckett doesn't seem too worried about him. Then I'm done."

"You're not blown away by the prospect of being able to explore other planets?"

He was, of course; the knowledge that it wouldn't be him doing it was like a knife to the side.

"Exploration is open to those who choose it," said Teyla. "As I do not think I will be able to return to my own galaxy for some time... it may be my next calling. Though it may be a while before even leaving this planet is possible... in which case, perhaps this world will keep my attention. It seems a most complex place. Maybe some here would like to join me?"

"But first we need to finish up _Dancing with the Stars_!" called Lacey.

Yes, of course. After all, Rosanne Cash was supposed to perform tomorrow.

* * * THE END * * *

Hope you liked it! But I'd love to hear from you no matter what.


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